


Idolatry

by quincette



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: (im)proper use of aloe vera, Banter, Blasphemy, Blushing, Canon Universe, Desert, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Smut, Happy Sex, Idiots in Love, Learning languages, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past and Present POVs, Resolved Sexual Tension, Road Trips, Romance, Skinny Dipping, So much blushing, Unreliable Narrator, do people blush this much?, journey fic, language lesson turns into smut, learning language as an excuse for smut, marooned in a desert together, multiple deaths nothing permanent, proper use of Polaroid SX-70 camera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 20:26:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30027375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quincette/pseuds/quincette
Summary: “You have a lovely mole,” Yusuf said. Nicolò didn’t catch his last word. He looked at Yusuf questioningly.Yusuf tapped on his mole gently as he rinsed his blade. “Mole,” he repeated in Arabic.“Mole,” said Nicolò in Zeneize. Then he tried to imitate the Arabic word.Yusuf smiled at his effort. His dimples were showing. They had been mostly hidden by his beard, it felt like a discovery every time Nicolò saw them.Nicolò didn’t know what possessed him when he reached out to touch that spot and said, “Dimple.” in Zeneize.“Dimple,” repeated Yusuf and of course he did perfect the first time. He said the word back in Arabic. Nicolò tried to repeat it. By the way Yusuf smiled, it looked like he did a passable job.Then it’s all over too quickly. Yusuf scooped some water and rinsed Nicolò’s face, then used his own shirt to dab it. “All done,” he said.Then their eyes locked and something else, something that in hindsight felt inevitable, shifted.---OrLove and Lust in Paradise, in which Joe and Nicky reminiscing a few firsts, including a journey across the desert, dying in each other’s arms, and the inevitable changes between them.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 46
Kudos: 388
Collections: The Old Guard Big Bang





	Idolatry

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thanks for clicking on this fic!  
> This is a journey fic that charts Yusuf and Nicolo's Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers arc, viewed through the lens of Yusuf's sketches, among other things, created for The Old Guard Big Bang 2021. Artwork is by the lovely [Ali at here-for-a-jape at Tumblr](https://here-for-a-jape.tumblr.com). Thanks for sticking with me, darling!
> 
> There will be a rough trip across the desert and adventures and language shenanigans and smut galore!

****

It is the truth universally acknowledged that the oldest man on earth, Yusuf al-Kaysani, sleeps like the dead. Meanwhile, his beloved, the second oldest man on earth, Nicolò di Genova, sleeps uncannily like he has a third eye open, ready to spring into wakefulness at the slightest perceived threat. 

It is little known that if certain conditions are serendipitously met, the opposite can happen. It is an occasion so rare, it has happened fewer times than the blue moon, though significantly more times than the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn. 

This morning is one such occasion. The certain conditions that have been met are: they are in Malta, indoors, at a place they have, quietly, in the past few centuries, referred to as their home. They are hale and whole. The twenty-first-century mattress is truly state-of-the-art. The linen is clean and soft. The late summer weather is forgiving, the air is sultry with the scent of orange blossom.

And they just had a fantastic fuck fest that may or may not have lasted for a few days. 

It is the combination of these things that roused Yusuf – or Joe, as he is known in their most recent decades – from his sleep earlier than his usual waking hour. It is also the very combination of these things that pulled Nicolò – or Nicky in this century – deeper into his slumber. Such that he only stirs ever so softly to acknowledge the feather-light brush of Joe’s lips on his bare shoulder as he slips from their bed and pads to the kitchen for sustenance. Because they will need to leave the bed and eat, eventually. 

The next time Nicky stirs awake, it is a pleasantly slow, gradual thing. His senses come alive one by one, coaxed by the intangible things that he knows by instinct are Joe’s doing. First, the phantom aches on his skin and flesh, invisible but lingering, a memory of multiple satisfying bouts of bedsport. Then the wet breeze and the warmth of the sun slanting in from the open window. Then the smell of spiced chai, heavy with milk, honey, cinnamon and cardamom. Then, the scratches of charcoal on paper; confident, reverent, punctuated by pauses and sighs. 

It is Nicky’s favourite way to wake up such that the corners of his mouth curve up before his eyes open. 

“Good morning, my heart.” 

Nicky can feel his smile expand in response to Joe’s greeting, splitting his face. His eyelids still feel too heavy to lift.

“Have I told you lately that I love watching you sleep? It doesn’t happen as often as I’d like.”

Nicky cracks a grin and stretches. He is lying on his side. He luxuriates on the feel of the bedlinen against his limbs, trying to dispel the sleep even if he makes no effort to untangle himself from the fabric that they thoroughly crumpled last night. 

“Yusuf,” he says, because Joe is always Yusuf when it is just the two of them. “Why are you awake?” His question dissolves into a yawn that he valiantly tries to stifle. He fails, so he redirects his effort to open his eyes. 

Joe is smiling. His eyes are not on Nicky, but on the paper stretched over a drawing board on his lap, his gaze rapt. 

“You are irresistible.” Joe hums, adding a line into his drawing, tongue caught between teeth. He draws back, and his eyes soften – signs that he is satisfied, for now. After, he flicks his eyes onto Nicky.

Nicky hums by way of response, because this particular gaze – at once an appreciative, assessing and adoring gaze of an artist whose works have made into many, many collections in museums all over the world, credited to various names – always manages to wipe his words from his brain. 

“Should I hold the pose?”

Joe chuckles. “Would you be so kind, my love?” 

“Of course,” Nicky says, deciding that he will do his own appreciation of Joe’s form. 

Joe’s hair is a riot of curls that look unfairly soft and endearing on him. He is sitting cross-legged on the chaise longue next to the window, shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose pants. The golden morning light casts shadows on the dips and rises of his muscles. Nicky drinks in the sight, tracing Joe’s shape shamelessly behind his eyelashes, the way he did the night before with his eyes, hands, mouth, for hours. 

“Nicolò,” Joe says, at once fond and admonishing. “Don’t make an invitation you can’t keep.”

Nicky hides his face in his folded arms, guilty as charged. It’s rare that he plays the vixen, but when he does, he thoroughly enjoys how effective it is on Joe. “Is that a challenge?” he asks, eyes peeking out, voice muffled. He may have wiggled his bum a little. 

“It’s a plea, _qamari_. Have mercy on me. I really like to finish this drawing.” 

“ _Shamsi_ ,” Nicky says, because that endearment deserves its counterpart, always. 

Joe actually stops drawing for a bit to look at him so softly, so radiantly he’s truly the living embodiment of the sun to Nicky. 

“You know you can snap pictures now?” Nicky teases. “That new camera Booker sent us is in that drawer next to you. We don’t even have to develop the pictures.”

Joe huffs, “I am aware, _hayati_. Though I would like to think that I don’t need some machine’s help for this.” He blows softly in his paper and looks pointedly at Nicky. 

So Nicky behaves and lets the scratch of Joe’s charcoal fill out the silence. He closes his eyes and rests his face on his arms. The linen sheet feels heavenly, and the sunlight warm on his skin. He lets the sensations carry him elsewhere.

Centuries worth of memories is a vast sea governed by different things for different immortals. For Nicky, smell and sound have the most pull on them. They can churn his still water deep enough to buoy the dregs of the most sedimented past to the surface.

And what surfaces are fragments of things. Some are happy, some less so. But Nicky parses through them anyway, examining them indiscriminately. Some are cherished, others are lessons. And once he’s done cataloguing them, he tells himself he will make new, happier memories. 

Because if immortality brings naught else to their lives but an endless cycle of atonement, then at the very least he could do along the way is trying to make as many good memories as possible, like populating the abyss with strange and colourful and beautiful creatures.

The warmth, the texture, the smell of spice and the sounds of Joe's charcoal have created a magnetic pull that brings him back to the dawn of their relationship. At some savage, beautiful desert whose name eludes Nicky, yet its vista is clear behind his eyelids like he was just there the day before. The sand was red, the sky impossibly blue, and the weather was not always unforgiving. And he and Yusuf had not yet settled on a common tongue between them. 

It was a strange time for them. No longer enemies, and yet the concept of ‘friends’ seemed at once too banal, yet unattainable, taking into accounts everything that they’d done to each other since they met on the battlefields at Al-Quds. ‘Reluctant travel companions’ is how Nicky would have described it today. 

Oh, and were they ever so reluctant. And yet, and yet, during those strange days Nicolò could always count on Yusuf. And the opposite also applied; Nicolò would die for Yusuf. And died defending Yusuf he did. Many times. And somewhere along the way, Yusuf began to mourn his every single death.

Now viewed in the safety of their centuries-old relationship, Nicky supposes those days had their own charm. 

He realises Joe has stopped drawing. The smell of spices is getting stronger. Nicky opens his eyes to find Joe’s eyes on him and his charcoal-smudged fingers gripping a steaming clay mug.

“Yours is just next to the bed,” Joe indicates a spot on the floor. “At ease now.” He winks. 

Nicky smiles, finding a steaming mug at the foot of the bed. He will take it in a bit; for now he just wants to drink the sight of Joe for a minute, extrapolating the image with the Yusuf of that strange unnamed desert. The two are the same and yet vastly different. 

Nicky wonders if Joe ever thinks the same; if as Joe sketched him, he compares the Nicky of today with the Nicolò of those days. He wonders if that comparison comes across in his drawing, or if that informs the way he sees him, the way he immortalises Nicky’s features on paper.

Nicky and Nicolò. Joe and Yusuf.

It’s another minute before Nicky sighs and makes a move to claim his chai. He sits up and retreats into the bed until he has his back against the headboard, cradling the hot mug with both hands, folding and crossing his legs underneath the sheet, mirroring Joe’s pose on his armchair.

He inhales the mouthwatering smell of the chai. Nicky doesn’t consider himself religious anymore, but in mornings like this, his Catholic reflex thanks Santa Maria for all this blessing. 

He brings the mug to his mouth, tentatively testing the temperature by dipping his tongue in the liquid. Satisfied that it isn’t too hot, he puts his lips onto the rim and sips.

He hears Joe chuckle. “You still drink like a kitten.”

Nicky smiles, and because he’s still in a certain mood, he made a point to dart his tongue and lick his lips.

Joe groans. Nicky holds his gaze.

“Where did you go just now, _hayati_?”

Joe loves stories. Loves telling them and loves hearing them, especially from Nicky. As limited Nicky is with words sometimes.

“Do you remember the first time you drew me?”

Joe takes a moment. “I think I do,” he says.

“Was it in that wadi on that desert – the first large one we travelled across, completely ill-prepared?”

“Ah,” Joe says. And Nicky hears something else in his voice. 

Joe ducks, rubbing his hand on his neck, looking at Nicky behind thick eyelashes. A trick he does when he is bashful. Nicky raises his eyebrows.

“That’s the first time that _you_ caught me drawing you.” 

Nicky grins and takes another sip. He doesn’t think they had ever talked about this. “When was the first time you got away with it then?”

Joe’s eyes turn sharper. He tilts his head, considering, remembering, like he could trace history by looking at the outline of Nicky’s nose. Maybe he can. Visual cues tend to stick and linger in Joe’s mind. 

“Just outside of Al-Quds. We made camp amongst Gethsemane’s olive trees. There was a fire and no common words between us that we hadn’t screamed at each other as we…,” He trails off… _killed each other_ , he doesn’t say, but Nicky hears the unfinished thought. “Anyways, Yusuf thought he had never seen such a _strange_ profile.”

Nicky frowns. “Yusuf didn’t have a sketchbook or charcoal then.”

They did this sometimes, talking about themselves as if they were other people. Perhaps in a way, they had been different people. Different people who lived differently and died many times and reborn as other people. 

“He didn’t,” affirms Joe. “But the ground was sandy, and there were many fallen branches. One minute Yusuf was staring at this Frank with his too big a nose, fire playing strange light on his face and those unsettling eyes and the next thing he knew his hands moved and then there were lines on the sand.”

“Ah,” says Nicky then, strangely pleased to uncover little secrets like these. 

Sometimes, they did this, revisiting almost a millennia of memories, rediscovering, reaffirming, explaining, reframing. They both enjoy the exercise. Hindsight may feel useless for one lifetime. But for many lifetimes? It’s a blessing. 

“What did Yusuf do then?” 

Joe rubs his beard as if reliving the embarrassment. “Oh, he was furious, Nicky. Furious and ashamed to have wasted his thoughts and talents on this enemy who just wouldn’t _stay_ dead.”

Nicky takes another sip while remembering, “And here Nicolò thought this Moor just didn’t know how to stay still and probably plotting his next murder.”

“No, my love. Yusuf was busy stomping out the incriminating evidence of his fascination for Nicolò’s features.” Joe can almost imagine the feel of the earth on his boots as Yusuf incredulously erased the outline of Nicolò’s profile that he had scribbled on the sand.

Nicky chuckles. “Was he at least proud of this drawing in the sand?”

“Oh, he _knew_ it’s good. And he knew he could do better. He _wanted_ to do better. He’s itching to get his hands on paper and charcoal. He hated it all.”

“Poor Yusuf.”

Joe chuckles along, looking at Nicky so fondly his gaze feels like a caress. Any other moment, Nicky will drag him back to bed and keep him there for a while. But, for now, he wants to rediscover more.

“What was the name of that desert, the one where Yusuf finally let Nicolò see that he’s drawing him?”

Joe goes silent for a bit. He reached into his own churning sea of memories and couldn’t find the answer. “I can’t remember,” he says. 

This, too, happens sometimes – they both look for the same creature in their seas of memories, and it eludes them. 

“Red sand, blue sky. Somewhere to the east because we’re looking for Andromache and Quynh – is that right?” asks Nicky.

“Yes,” Joe says, his frown deepens. “It bothers me that I can’t remember the name of that desert.”

“It’ll come around,” says Nicky. 

“Or it may not,” says Joe. The sea of memories is deep and in constant motion. One day it may spit the name out, or it may decide to keep it adrift and lost. It is unforgiving, much like the actual sea.

“It may not. And it’s fine,” says Nicky, soothing. “Because I think you remember what happened there.”

Joe’s smile is soft. “How could I forget?”

“Would you retell it to me?” Nicky asks.

“Again, _hayati_?”

“Hmm,” Nicky sips his mug. “You’re the better storyteller between us.”

“Flatterer,” says Joe. But he perks up.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Nicky says. And when Joe raises his eyebrows, Nicky not so surreptitiously spreads his legs under the sheets and arches his back a little bit - all while keeping his face impassive. It always drives Joe wild.

“You better,” Joe says, voice low. “Where would you want me to start?” 

“From when everything went sideways.”

“It was a bandit attack, wasn’t it?” Joe begins. “No matter how death has resolutely kept spitting us back to the world, it didn’t change the fact that the two of us weren’t strong or skilled enough to survive against twenty armed men.”

Nicky closes his eyes, remembering.

“You fought beautifully. You saved me. You parried blades and swings that came for me.”

Nicky sees it, can almost feel the impact of metal that jarred his bones as Nicolò took blows meant to harm Yusuf. 

“And I did the same for you…”

He sees Yusuf too. Ferocious, handsome Yusuf, whose fight looked like a deadly dance, dispensing slashes and jabs on Nicolò’s behalf. 

“... at that moment, I thought, Yusuf thought, I wanted _you_ to survive. It doesn’t matter that he might die, but the thought of letting harm come to you was horrifying. Then he realised something else…”

“What was it?” Nicky prompts. 

“... just something,” Joe shrugs. “Some unnamed, precious feelings, taking root there. He didn’t know what it was. I still couldn’t name what it was.”

Nicky thinks he knows. He, too, still couldn’t name that dawning feeling. 

“Twenty armed men, Nicky,” Joe shakes his head and chuckles. “Had they been smarter, they would have let the first two men get a fatal stab on and pretended that their deaths stick. They should have laid low in the sand like a carcass ripe for the vultures. That way they would have experienced much less suffering.”

Nicky blows softly on his mug. “I’d forgive them. They’re so young,” he says. 

“They were.” Joe smiles. “Fools,” he adds. 

Nicky is so fond of this man. 

“We fought and fought and eventually you fell,” Joe continues. “At the start of it, you were wearing that sand-coloured tunic I bought you. And at the end of it saw it turn brown with blood. You fell, and I screamed.”

***

Yusuf screamed Nicolò’s name, momentarily distracted. And that’s enough for a fatal blow to land on his neck.

When he came to, it was dark. And he was lying on something soft. When his vision cleared, he saw the night sky strewn with stars. Its colours shifted between the darkest blue and the deepest purple, the river of stars was glittering silver. And at the edge of his vision was Nicolò’s face, looming over him, eyes closed.

Pins, needles and residual pain assaulted his senses as he tried to change his position. Nicolò’s eyes flew open. Yusuf felt a palm being gently pressed against his cheek. Its calluses and shape felt familiar. He had died by those hands – many times. By the blade it had wielded. By the crushing pressure it had laid on his windpipe. By the rock it had held in its fist and rammed into his skull again and again and again until he’d turned into a bloody pulp.

This kind of touch was new. A familiar hand, new touch. It was gentle. It checked and inspected, like Yusuf’s face was a prized fruit in the market.

Yusuf blindly reached for the hand, like he had had many times – to block, parry, cut, and hurt in kind. But this time, it was for none of that. This time he just reached to touch, to ground himself in something solid. 

The hand stilled when Yusuf’s own layered over it. And when Yusuf grasped, it reciprocated the gesture. And when he was finally alive enough to coax some sounds from his mouth, it was to say Nicolò’s name.

“Nicolò,” he said. “Nicolò.”

“Yusuf,” said Nicolò, “Yusuf,” because their name came easily now; they have become shorthand to express so many things; petty little things, important things. _It didn’t matter_ , Yusuf thought. The important thing was they’re there, and they’re alive.

Yusuf grasped Nicolò’s hand tighter as a wave of nausea washed over him. When he rolled over to his side to vomit bile into the sand, he realised that he had been lying on Nicolò’s lap.

Nicolò’s hand came back, this time cupping the back of his neck, like a patient touch of an old nursemaid witnessing her grown charge getting drunk for the first time. Concerned, perhaps a little disappointed, but always well-meaning, and always with love. 

Yusuf’s skin felt clammy. In the absence of the sun, the sweat rapidly drying on his skin left him cold, such that when Nicolò took his hand from his neck, Yusuf keenly felt bereft. But it was quickly replaced with blankets draping over his back.

Earlier, they’d had a scant few minutes to decide what to do when they’d seen the telltale of the robbers kicking up dust from afar. Yusuf had been grateful that they’d experienced enough attacks to immediately secure some of their most crucial belongings in a satchel and buried it in the sand a little further away from their camp. 

The satchel was not much, but it did have a blanket and water and their old weapons. Though Yusuf mourned the loss of his new _shamshir_. Everything else was gone. Their camels, the bedrolls and maps and coins – the damn bastards. Yusuf shivered and retched some more.

Nicolò said something to him in a mixture of his native tongue and a butchered version of Arabic that Yusuf had been teaching him. Yusuf didn’t fully catch the meaning, but the tone with which it was spoken was an explanation enough.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Nothing permanent.” He took a moment to breathe. “And you?”

Nicolò shook his head and smiled ruefully. It’s fully dark now, so Yusuf was unable to see his expression. 

“I guess we lost everything?” Yusuf asked him, making the meaning of his words clearer by gesticulating ‘everything’, making a shape of the camel with his hands, undulating them to mime the form the humps on the camel’s back.

“Gone,” Nicolò said in his lilting Arabic.

Yusuf wondered if he’d ever get used to not hearing Nicolò’s strange pronunciation again.

Yusuf sighed. Their journey just got infinitely more challenging. He was contemplating retreating back to where they had come from to gather more supplies, delaying their journey a little bit to guarantee a significantly more comfortable journey. But then Nicolò nudged his side, handing him the satchel that they had buried in a hurry just before the robbers had descended on them.

Yusuf took stock of what’s inside. Not nearly enough water and food. His old _shamshir_ , Nicolò’s old broadsword. He’s kicking himself mentally. What good would their weapons be in the barren, indifferent land ahead of them? In his haste, the logic had been that if they still have weapons with them, then they can defend themselves. But now Yusuf thought what kind of suicidal robbers would venture into the wasteland? Into the desert at its deadliest? They should have put more sustenance inside. But what did it matter? If Nicolò and himself perished because of the exposure, they would just be revived in probably better shape anyway, wouldn’t they?

Then he found his sketchbook inside the satchel. 

“You saved this?” He asked Nicolò incredulously.

Nicolò shrugged.

***

Nicky shrugs, “I thought it was important to you. I couldn’t understand why you were so irate by the fact that I saved the journal in which you probably recorded our stories, our routes and every noteworthy thing you thought of during our journey.”

“Yes, but _habibi_ ,” Joe stares. 

Nicky shushes him gently. “Did you know that once, when Nicolò’s abbey caught fire, the abbot told him to run to the library and save as much literature as he possibly can, even if it’s at the cost of his life? Knowledge is paramount, _tesoro_.”

***

If Yusuf cared to examine more deeply at that time, he would find that his irritation had stemmed from the fact that Nicolò could have had a look at his sketchbook. It’s true, there were important notes in there, information about places and faces and seasons. There were drawings of maps and useful plants and animals. There were tallies and numbers.

But Yusuf had also wasted pages on random streams of consciousness. And lately, they have been filled with Nicolò. And so, on some pages and on the margin of some notes and pictures of more useful things, there were lines of Nicolò’s profile, an approximation of the curve of his nose, the breadth of his hand, even the innate mole on his jaw that appeared whenever the man bothered to shave his face clean. 

It’s true that the book was important. And paper was expensive. Yusuf would have mourned the loss of it. Perhaps even felt inconvenienced by the loss of the information in it. But the incriminating proof of how Nicolò had snuck into his head? He didn’t need anyone else to know about it. Especially not Nicolò. 

But surely, if Nicolò had peeked and noticed, he would have said something to Yusuf? He would have at least asked why his face was in there? And he hadn’t, so that meant he didn’t take a look. Which sounded like Nicolò. As much as Yusuf hated the horde of pale Franks that invaded his holy land, somewhere along the way he had begun divorcing Nicolò from them. 

This Frank, _his_ Frank – and he had caught himself thinking of Nicolò this way so many times that he had given up trying to correct himself – was polite, quiet, patient, and exasperatingly insistent at times. And he had more respect for boundaries than Yusuf, whose curiosity and still burning resentment for what Nicolò’s peoplehad done his people had often manifested in inflammatory commentaries and biting questions designed to rile the man up. Nicolò had only understood maybe half of it, but Yusuf’s tone had always been clear. 

So Yusuf said nothing more of the book. Something in his hindbrain thought to thank Nicolò. But instead, he ended up making a comment about how its weight would be more useful had it been food that Nicolò thought to add to their satchel instead. 

The night was relatively gentle. They should make haste because it’s prudent to travel in the desert during sundown, with stars as the guide and the merciless heat at bay. They should only rest when the dawn was breaking, setting up their tent or find somewhere with enough shadow to sit still with their camels and wait until the worst of the arid land passes by and resume the journey at night. 

But dying and reviving were exhausting. Their bodies remembered the trauma even when they were objectively hale and healthy. And they have neither camels nor a tent. And their clothes were tattered in parts thanks to the fight. 

Yusuf stood and looked around, the surviving robbers had taken the dead bodies of their comrades away, so there was nothing to loot. But that also meant they wouldn’t be coming back, which was good – they could take some time to rest. Yusuf supposed it was a small blessing that they didn’t strip him and Nicolò off their clothes and shoes when they were dead. 

Yusuf knew, as he decided, that he would regret his decision, but he said to Nicolò anyway: “Sleep?” In Arabic, because by then, Nicolò should have known the word. 

Nicolò stilled for a few seconds like he was considering something. But then he shrugged that particular shrug of his. “ _Si_ ,” he said. 

***

“The night was cold, but you felt so warm pressed to me,” Joe says, layering the paper he had on his lap with a fresh one from the stack he had put on the low table next to him. 

Nicky snorts. “Of course, you would remember the cuddling.” 

“How could I not? It was our first time cuddling like that.”

“Yes it was,” says Nicky, sipping his chai and savouring the spices. “The night didn’t start like that, though.”

“No, it didn’t.” Joe laughs, his charcoal dancing on the paper, drawing two fetal figures in the darkness, facing opposite directions. 

“But then I woke up in the middle of the night and there you were. Solid and warm and definitely cuddling me.”

“Yusuf had always been a seeker of creature comfort,” says Joe, drawing another two fetal figures, this time facing the same direction and without gaps between them. 

“You were a pampered scion of a well-off merchant family playing a hero in a faraway land. Of course you would,” Nicky says without heat, taking another sip from his mug. 

Joe’s eyes crinkles. “Yusuf would have denied that accusation. But I conceded. I was a pampered fool. Why didn’t you push me away and insist that we go on our way? Why did you indulge me?”

“Nicolò should have done that,” Nicky says. “But maybe your penchant for indulgences had rubbed off on him.” He looks at Joe, and there is that faint blush on his cheeks that tell of something else. 

Joe waits. 

“It felt good.” Nicky admits. 

Joe finds it utterly charming that he still gets flustered remembering some parts of the early days of their relationship.

***

Nicolò jerked awake at the weight and warmth pressed to his back. He found Yusuf’s arm draped on his waist, and their bodies flushed against each other from feet to chest. The hair at the back of his neck stood up from the soft puffs of Yusuf’s warm breath. 

He should probably say something, or do something. Move away, or even nudge or kick him to roll over. Yusuf would probably stay asleep. But he did none of those. Instead, he listened to Yusuf’s breathing, and soon his own matched it and carried him to sleep once again. 

The next time he woke up, it was because of the heat. He feigned sleep for a bit until Yusuf woke up. He felt his confusion at the position he found himself in by how he jerked and detached themself from curling around his body. He waited a few minutes before showing Yusuf that he was awake. 

It was a long, sweltering day. Fortunately, the spot where they took shelter the night before provided enough shade to wait it out. 

There were only two waterskins between them. Nicolò and Yusuf took two gulps to wet their parched throats until sundown. As Nicolò swirled the water in his mouth, he wondered what dying of thirst would be like. If it would be worse than suffering the famine that had beset his army at Antioch. Yusuf might not have said anything, but Nicolò knew that there wasn’t nearly enough sustenance for them to make the journey to the other side. He wondered then, how many times they would die from exposure. 

Yusuf spent the day with his book and praying more times than Nicolò had ever seen him do. Nicolò never once tried to peek inside or rifle through the pages. Not unless Yusuf showed him a specific thing he was working on or needed his input for something. It felt like the least he could do after invading his land and tagging along this journey to find the women in their shared dreams. 

At sundown, Yusuf tapped his shoulder and signalled that they should make a move. Nicolò nodded. There wasn’t much that they needed to prepare; the satchel was their only load. Yusuf strapped his _shamshir_ on his waist and Nicolò does the same with his broadsword. The familiar weight reminded him of the bloody days at Al-Quds.

The moon was in a thin crescent that night, a silvery slash amongst a river of glittering stars. The long walk on the sand would be scenic and enjoyable if it weren’t for the chill and the thirst. Hunger was easier to ignore, as Nicolò had lived with it all his life. It has always been in the background. Thirst, not so much. 

But it was Yusuf that went down first. And it was not because of thirst. He went down with a surprised yelp. He was walking a few paces in front of Nicolò, climbing a sand dune just to disappear completely when he reached its peak. 

“Yusuf!” Nicolò shouted. He hastily climbed the dune and slid down to where Yusuf was lying on his back. He was groaning low and clutching his feet when Nicolò reached him. 

“Yusuf, what–” Nicolò stopped when he heard a hiss. His eyes followed the sound to find an undulating shape gracefully making a pattern across the sand as it moved away from them. 

“Fucking viper!” Yusuf said, followed by a long, strained groan. Nicolò recognised the profanity and the snake in his Arabic.

“Poison?” asked Nicolò. 

“Poison,” Yusuf confirmed, followed by a string of curses. “Fuck! This will not be quick,” he said, his pained groan dissolved into something like a hysterical laugh. 

Nicolò knelt to look at the twin dark puncture marks on Yusuf’s calf, the skin around them already darkening. He hesitated but for a second before grabbing Yusuf’s leg and dived in mouth first. 

“Nicolò –” Yusuf said, surprised. 

Nicolò was familiar with the taste of Yusuf’s blood. Sometimes, when he wasn’t dreaming of the women and their adventure in exotic lands, or of the soothing echoes of prayers under vaulted ceiling and idyllic days spent near the Mediterranean seas, the taste of Yusuf’s blood mixed with ashes of the lives burning at Al-Quds was all he could taste. It tasted a little different now, it’s bitter, it’s _off_. Nicolò sucked as much as he could and spat it into the sand only to dive in for more, hoping that he could get the most of it out so Yusuf’s body could neutralise the rest before it had a chance to kill him. 

Yusuf told him it was futile by weakly grabbing his turban, dislodging it from his head. Nicolò ignored it. Only when Yusuf tugged on his hair did Nicolò look up. He didn’t think he had ever seen Yusuf’s face scrunched up in such pain before. 

“No,” Yusuf said, shaking his head weakly. “No use.” It looked like speaking was hard. 

Nicolò scooted over to cradle Yusuf’s head on his lap. Yusuf was clawing at his own neck, struggling both to speak and breathe. “Ni–colo,” he said, reaching for Nicolò with his other hand. 

Nicolò grasped his hands, lacing their fingers together, distantly aware that they just did this the day before. Yusuf had died the day before and he was going to die again today, and for some reason, Nicolò felt like a complete and utter fucking failure. 

“Shhh, Yusuf,” he tried to soothe him. “Save your breath.” 

Yusuf’s hand was cold and clammy to his touch; beads of sweats lined his brows and upper lip. Nicolò wiped them using his sleeve. Yusuf looked at him sharply and shook his head, and somehow Nicolò _knew_. He knew what Yusuf would ask of him. 

Yusuf closed his eyes, gasping enough air before opening them. “Kill me,” he managed. 

There were tiny splashes on Yusuf’s face that Nicolò belatedly registered as tears falling from his own eyes while he said, “No.”

Yusuf looked angry. “Kill me –!” he said again, this time in Nicolò’s native tongue. “Please.” His grip on Nicolò’s hand was crushing his bone. But Nicolò could only feel the air squeezing out of his lung as if he was the one being poisoned. 

“Shhh, no, Yusuf,” Nicolò said, his other hand moving to cradle Yusuf’s face. His eyes keep leaking tears. That must have been more than what he’d had to drink the past two days. 

Yusuf let out something between a sob and a laugh. He was shedding his own tears. “Nicolò–,” he tried again. Nicolò’s language always sits easier on his tongue, even when he’s dying. “– please.” 

In any other context, Nicolò would have done anything Yusuf asked, even when he didn’t ask him half so nicely; even without Yusuf having to ask him at all. But he could not fulfil this one. 

“I’m sorry,” he said in Zeneize. “I’m sorry,” he said again in Sabir. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said again in Arabic, many times. He wasn’t even sure which specifics, what transgressions against Yusuf that he’d committed that he was sorry about anymore. 

Yusuf would probably curse him if he could. But the poison was faster. He could barely breathe. Still, he retained that ability to barely breathe long after he lost his speech. He kept looking at Nicolò, pleading with his eyes, dragging his finger across his own throat just in case Nicolò had missed his plea. 

And still, Nicolò shook his head and wasted more tears and apologies on him. 

***

“For a moment, I thought you were cruel for not granting me a quick death,” says Joe. “But then, even that thought felt wrong somehow, for I _knew_ you, I knew your kindness. So then I thought, it’s not that you wouldn’t – you couldn’t.” 

“I couldn’t,” affirms Nicky.” It’s a selfish thought. I thought, no more, I couldn’t be the cause of your death anymore. And I was miserably sorry about that.”

“I remember.” Joe’s eyes were soft. “You said sorry, so many times, in all the languages that existed between us, the ones you had mastered and the ones you hadn’t.”

Nicky chews on his bottom lip. “I felt like such a failure. You were – are – so full of life, and I wanted to guard that, and here you were suffering and asking me to end it, and I couldn’t.”

“You shed so much tears for me, raining on my face,” says Joe. “And then I couldn’t speak or see anymore, but I feel you rocking me, so gently, like I was precious.”

Nicky closes his eyes. They sting. 

“And you sang, my love,” Joe looks almost joyful when he says it. “A secret you never shared before!”

Nicky laughs a little. His eyes are welling up when he opens them. He takes a gulp from his mug to centre himself. 

“What was that song?”

Nicky clears his throat and starts humming the tune. 

Joe closes his eyes and lets Nicky’s voice fill the air. There is no lovelier voice to his ears. 

“I forgave you,” he says when Nicky’s finished. 

Nicky widens his eyes. 

“Even then, my love, Yusuf forgave Nicolò as he died.”

Nicky wipes the twin tears that escape the corner of his eyes with the back of his hand. “If it had been me who got bitten, Joe, would you end my suffering?”

“Then? Yusuf would have,” says Joe in a heartbeat, “Today? I don’t think I could.”

Nicky smiles that signature slow smile of his. “Liar,” he accuses. 

Joe raises his eyebrows. “Care to elaborate, _qamari_?”

“Yusuf couldn’t end Nicolò’s suffering either. You couldn’t kill me then either, even if it’s to end my suffering. I did die slowly after.”

Joe frowns, then, remembering, he gasps. “No,” he points at Nicky. “No, that’s unfair. That was an entirely different case –”

Nicky sips his chai. 

“– you weren’t injured, and– and you didn’t ask –”

Nicky raises his eyebrows behind his mug.

“– and there were still water and some dried food we can share –”

“No, there were hardly any left,” says Nicky

“– and, and you _lied_ –”

***

Even with extreme rationing, the remaining food and water that they have seemed to dwindle at an alarming rate. Nicky knew they couldn’t stretch them for much longer, probably a couple of days, if he was optimistic. 

Yusuf was in considerably better shape than himself. His last death seemed to reset his energy, returning it to some kind of a baseline condition. He had gasped awake in Nicolò’s lap a few long minutes after the poison had managed to stop his heart. 

He had taken a moment to reorient himself, and when he’d seen Nicolò’s face, he had reached out and touched it, lingering for a few seconds before he’d picked himself up, dusted his clothes and motioned them to get going. 

Yusuf carried the satchel, and every few hours, two or three times a day, he would hand Nicolò the waterskin and a piece of stale bread for sustenance. Nicolò pocketed the bread and pretended to drink. 

Later, Nicolò offered to carry the satchel and surreptitiously put his bread pieces inside to give to Yusuf. Hunger had always been easy to ignore for him, and he told himself that the brief, wet touch of water on his lips as he pretended to drink when Yusuf was looking was enough. 

Yusuf was in better shape. It would be wise to just allocate their sustenance for him. That way, he could focus on navigating their journey. And Nicolò would die faster. Yusuf would be indignant, but Nicolò would just tell him to carry on and that he’d catch up once he’s revived and his condition was reset. 

When he fell eventually, Yusuf somehow put two and two together. 

Nicolò didn’t think he’d ever seen that shade of devastation in Yusuf’s eyes. 

“You fool!” Yusuf spat, even as he cradled Nicolò’s head on his lap like Nicolò had done when he was dying from the snakebite. “You utter and complete fucking imbecile!” Yusuf said. “I’ve never pegged you as a crafty weasel, but here you are, lying and deceiving my eyes. ‘I drank, Yusuf’, ‘I had my share, Yusuf’ – and here I thought you were just a camel, that you can manage with just a few drops of water!” 

His words were harsh but they barely registered. There was a pounding headache inside Nicolò’s head. His throat was on fire, and it felt like a snake had taken residence inside his belly, and it was now trying to constrict him to death from inside out. His eyes stung like he needed to sleep or cry, but there was no water left inside of him to shed. 

Yusuf’s calloused hands and tapered, elegant fingers, an artist’s fingers, felt cool to his burning face. 

Nicolò tried to lift a hand to touch Yusuf’s but dropped it halfway. It felt too heavy. He wondered how slow death by exposure would be. And how fast he would revive after. If he could revive. He didn’t think they’d tried starving themselves to death yet. Maybe that kind of death would stick. Nicolò supposed, if that happened, it wouldn’t have been so bad. Yusuf would not have to worry about him anymore. 

Yusuf grasped his hand. “Nicolò, Nicolò, what have you done?” 

Nicolò wanted to say that Yusuf needed not to worry, but at that moment, he felt the cool touch of the waterskin’s metal rim on his lips, and his hand jerked with a force he didn’t know he still had to keep the water from flowing. 

“No,” he coughed. “Keep it. For you,” he said, he isn’t sure in which language. 

Yusuf understood anyway. “What were you thinking?” Yusuf said accusingly, both their hands locked around the waterskin. It didn’t feel like it still had much inside. 

“You,” Nicolò said, and he had to stop to suppress another round of cough as his throat desperately needed water. “Go ahead,” he managed. 

Yusuf looked like he would like to hit Nicolò, backhanding some sense into his head. And Nicolò thought he was still handsome like this – furious, his head a riot of curls, a starry sky with a fat slash of moon hung on the sky behind him. 

“And what? Leave you to die here and revive? And how would you navigate this wasteland, hm? This isn’t the Mediterranean; you have no ship under your feet,” he hissed. 

Nicolò closed his eyes. He would like to explain that this had been a wise decision, to just focus on Yusuf’s health, but his head was too muddled to cobble the sentence together. Swimming in a sea of unpleasant sensations, something at the back of his mind made him lift his hand and draw a line across his throat – a request, a plea, a payback, a dare. 

***

“And you slapped me. It stung.” Nicky takes another sip from his steaming chai, eyes looking pointedly at Joe. 

Joe’s mouth hangs open. He closes it. And opens it again. “I’d backhand both of them if I could. Foolish children,” he says finally, somewhat annoyed but deflated. “Come to think about it I’ve never asked you about the logic behind your sacrifice. I still don’t understand, _hayati_. Explain to me like I’m thirty.”

“When we are revived,” Nicky says. “We go back to this baseline condition. Yes, it’s never pleasant, but afterwards, you are neither too hungry nor too parched. And it would have been better than how we were then after a few days in that desert.” So I thought it’s better for you to just get all the sustenance. You were the healthier one between us, you could go on, and I could –”

“You could die and reset your energy.” Yusuf’s eyes are blown wide. He laces his fingers together in front of his mouth. “ _, _habibi_.” _

__

“You don’t think it made sense? You could go on, and I could take my time dying, and I could catch up with you in a little while,” Nicky says, unblinking. 

__

Joe lets out a frustrated noise. “Nicolò, _habibi_.” Nicky winces a little behind his mug. “And how would you have done that, huh? Say, I was even a bigger fool and l left you there – how would you find me in those red sand dune?” Joe waves his hand, gesticulating wildly like he wont to do on the rare occasion his words don’t come out like he wants to. “And who’s to say you’re not going to choke on some sand, or mauled by some wild desert beast, or lost in a storm and end up, end up, like one of those shrivelled mummies…!” 

__

It strikes Nicky that Joe just said almost the exact same thing he had said back then, but with a different, updated lexicon. He has to smile. He is so fond of him. “I admit, it wasn’t the best idea,” he says. “But I did ask you to make it quick. And you slapped me, _ya_ _habibi_. So no, you couldn’t bestow me a gift of quick death either.”

__

Joe rubs his palm on his face. 

__

Nicky waits. 

__

“Forgive me for laying my hand on you so,” Joe says finally. “I’d slap that Yusuf to hell and back. Forgive me, I –”

__

“I forgave you,” Nicky cuts him off. “Nicolò forgave that Yusuf even then. I did deceive you simply because I don’t have the words to explain.”

__

Joe opens his mouth, then closes it again. He mutters some curses as he takes a long gulp from his mug. After, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He takes a few seconds before trying again. “I was so scared. And you were right. I couldn’t have done it then, either. I wept like a child when you finally went under.” 

__

Nicky smiles. “We were even then, _shamsi_.” 

__

Joe’s face is scrunched up. He looks both contemplative and pained. “It was a miracle that we managed to reach that wadi, at all, wasn’t it? The sheer _stupidity…_ ” He sighs. 

__

“Yusuf, my love,” Nicky says, in that deep tone that he knows Joe responds to the best. “We arrived anyway, and I will never forget what happened in that wadi. Even if that place doesn’t exist anymore today.”

__

Joe smiles finally. “I can still see it sometimes,” he shares, fingers moving over his paper again, making the memory tangible. 

__

__

***

__

__

Turned out, dying from exposure took longer than homicide and snakebite. Such that when Nicolò came back, dawn was breaking. And he was strangely moving. When he had blinked his eyes enough to orient himself, he realises that Yusuf had fashioned their turbans into a harness around his arms to drag him across the sand. 

__

Nicolò did not refuse what was left of the water and food anymore after that. 

__

They died once each after they had completely depleted the sustenance after. There was just nothing to eat or drink. Each time they died, they revived in the other’s arms. 

__

Something shifted between them then, an invisible thing that manifested in the way they look at each other, the way they curled around each other for warmth, and the shrinking distance between them as they walked to find the end of the sea of red sand. 

__

Nicolò died the last. It took him longer to go under and longer to resurface, as if whatever force that unsticks their death needed more time to jolt him back to life. 

__

He wasn’t exactly dead when Yusuf spotted something on the horizon, dragging him incrementally across the sand. He heard his excited shout. He heard Yusuf clearly when he said he would run there to get water and get back to get him. He saw his retreating silhouette disappear from his vision, then he saw no more. 

__

Everything was wet when he opened his eyes again. And he saw Jesus. 

__

__

***

__

__

“You really thought you did?”

__

“I did,” Nicky says, heat climbing to his cheeks. “Have I never told you this?”

__

“No,” says Joe, amused, “This is news to me, love.”

__

“Well,” Nicky takes a sip. There is little liquid left in his mug. “Now you know.” He was blushing in earnest. 

__

“Fascinating,” Joe says, folding his arm behind his head and leaning back. “I’m sorry to disappoint you then.”

__

“I wasn’t disappointed,” says Nicky. 

__

__

***

__

__

It wasn’t Jesus. But it was indeed his saviour. He was floating in a body of water. Yusuf was waist-deep in it, holding him afloat, saying his name over and over again in a hushed tone so soft Nicky could almost believe it had been his calls that brought him back. 

__

When he blinked, Yusuf made that relieved noise, and Nicolò tasted water. Fresh, sweet water trickling down to wet his lips from Yusuf’s scooped hand. He drank, slowly, then greedily, thinking he had been reborn. 

__

Yusuf’s face was also wet, and it was not from freshwater. 

__

“Yusuf,” he said weakly. _Why are you weeping?_ He wanted to ask. He wanted to find out if Yusuf’s reason was the reason he himself had cried when Yusuf had died.

__

But Nicolò didn’t get to ask the questions because Yusuf kissed him. He cupped Nicolò’s face with both palms and ducked to brush his lips on his face. The first kiss landed just shy from his lips, near where his mole was. The second and the third on his cheeks. The fourth on the side of his nose, under his eyes. And the fifth on the valley between his eyebrows. 

__

Then he held him close, lifting his body off the water and onto his chest, solid and warm. Nicolò could feel his beating heart. In between whispering his name, Yusuf said something Nicolò recognised as _hamdallah_ , over and over again, like he was praising his god for Nicolò’s return.

__

It compelled Nicolò to say thanks to his own god as he returned the embrace, hiding his own face in the juncture of Yusuf’s neck and shoulder because he felt too raw to be seen. 

__

__

***

__

__

“How long was I out?” 

__

Joe pauses. “I don’t remember,” he says honestly. “It could be a few hours. But it might as well be forever. Enough that for a moment, I believed that you’ve left me to bear our curse all alone.”

__

Joe looks so haunted that Nicky decides to get out of the bed, all in his naked glory, to join him on his chaise. Putting his empty mug on the coffee table, he folds his legs and leans on Yusuf’s side, giving him a series of pecks on random spots – his face, his shoulder, his neck – until Joe’s face smoothes over and he smiles. 

__

“Aren’t you cold?”

__

“You’re warm,” says Nicky, settling on his side, looking at the memory of the wadi as Joe sees it in his head. “It’s exactly as I remember it.”

__

“I wished I had pigments,” says Joe, hands moving to drape a throw on the chaise’s back to wrap around Nicky’s shoulders. “The colours were breathtaking.”

__

“They were,” says Nicky. 

__

Joe turns a little then, pressing his forehead to Nicky’s, “The water was the colour of your eyes.”

__

“Was it?” says Nicky. “I don’t remember.”

__

“I’ll never forget,” says Joe, brushing Nicky’s cheekbone with the back of his hand. His fingers are smudged with charcoal. 

__

Nicky wants it on his skin. He catches Joe’s wrist and fits his palm onto his neck. 

__

“You’ll get charcoal all over you,” chides Joe. 

__

“That’s the idea,” says Nicky, and he closes the scant distance between their lips. 

__

__

***

__

__

The wadi was sprawling and alternately busy and deserted. It had quite a few permanent residents and more perennial settlers. Evidently, it was an established checkpoint in several routes across the desert. The spring that fed its lake was enough to create an ecosystem so bountiful that Yusuf and Nicolò can live off foraging the area. Its surrounding rocky hills provide decent shelter to rest. 

__

Yusuf was resourceful, seeing opportunities in his surroundings and knew just enough to turn them to their advantage. They made ropes from fibres he harvested and dried half the dates they found. Eventually, they have enough to barter with both locals and travellers for a comfortable tent and warm blankets. 

__

Their new sleeping habit, however, stayed. 

__

Yusuf had no shortage of things to draw there. The land was as beautiful as it was savage. Yet more pages in his notebook were filled with lines traced from Nicolò’s shape and form. A few weeks back, before the desert, Yusuf would berate himself for wasting his precious paper on that. Here, in that paradise on earth, he gave up the pretense of annoyance. 

__

He started drawing Nicolò with more details. Or adding Nicolò to the landscape he drew. Nicolò swimming on the lake, climbing the palm tree, his hands mending their clothes, gutting fish; the intensity of his strange eyes rendered as best as he could without colour, the curves of his lips. 

__

“What are you scribbling all day?” Nicolò asked one day, and Yusuf felt somewhat caught red-handed. He also noticed that his Sabir was getting better. 

__

“I’m planning an Arabic lesson for you,” he said a little too quickly. 

__

“I thought you’ve given up on me.” 

__

“I was waiting to have better tools to teach you, “Yusuf countered. 

__

Nicolò perked up. “And you have found them?”

__

“Sort of,” said Yusuf. The rock formations near the wadi were fairly soft, and you could sharpen a pebble and ‘write’ on it and scratch it to return it to its original state. It was considerably more reliable than writing on the sand like he had done before the robbers had taken almost everything they had. 

__

“Alright,” Nicolò said. There was a smile lingering at the edge of his lips that now Yusuf could recognise as him being amused. 

__

“What?” 

__

“I,” Nicolò hesitated. “I just wondered what you drew on your paper all day,” he said. “And If I may see it,” he tacked on. 

__

Yusuf had never thought Nicolò would ask, so he didn’t have a prepared answer. He had always been careful with whom he shared his art with, as some would view it as a sin of idolatry. He skirted the rules with landscapes and plants and stylised geometric shapes he had happily shared with most people. But he drew other things too, animals and faces and tried to capture their likeness as best as he could, which he had guarded carefully and only showed to selected people he knew wouldn’t have minded. 

__

Nicolò was not of his faith, and judging by how his people have carved and painted likeness of all creatures in their natural state into their buildings in Roman cities, it was safe to assume that such an act of creation is not viewed as idolatry. There was just one problem. Would he be offended to know that Yusuf has been stealing his likeness and putting it on paper? That he has been studying Nicolò and recorded it at his leisure, without permission? Would he consider that a transgression? 

__

_But what is an artist without anyone to appreciate his work?_

__

Before he could overthink it, he opened a page he knew would be inoffensive to Nicolò. It was a drawing of the waterfront near their camp, where the terrain populated by shrubs and palm trees met the water, and fish congregated in between the submerged boulders. 

__

“Amazing,” Nicolò said, scooting closer to Yusuf. “You have such a gift, Yusuf.”

__

Yusuf felt warm all over. 

__

“Is that…,” Nicolò started. “Is that me?”

__

Yusuf could feign innocence or surprise. But really, deep down, he _wanted_ Nicolò to notice; for a reason he was not comfortable examining too closely yet.

__

“It is you,” he said, a little pleased that Nicolò recognised the silhouette sitting at the edge of a boulder with his feet dipped in the water. Then again, Nicolò has a very distinct profile. And then also, that drawing was hardly the first time Yusuf had drawn his likeness. At that point, Yusuf could draw Nicolò’s profile with his eyes closed. 

__

Nicolò looked at him as if he could kiss him. Or maybe it’s just Yusuf’s wishful thinking. Instead, Nicolò squeezed his arm and rewarded him with that rare lopsided smile. Something fluttered in Yusuf’s belly. It was getting worse, whatever _it_ was. 

__

“It’s a very flattering take on me,” said Nicolò, switching to Zeneize. 

__

_Don’t you know that you are beautiful?_ Yusuf wanted to ask him, but he said instead, “I think it’s an adequate take of you.”

__

Nicolò’s smile expanded. He tilted his head a little, looking at Yusuf beneath his eyelashes. It made Yusuf think of how the blue of the water peeked through the shadows of the palm fronds. It also made him feel greedy for _more_.

__

So he flipped to another page to show Nicolò. 

__

His heart leaped to his throat as Nicolò gasped. 

__

Yusuf was rather proud of that one drawing. It was Nicolò’s head, clean-shaven face tilted a little to the side, exposing the deep set of his eyes, his nose and his mole as the sunset hit his skin. It’s an image that was stuck inside Yusuf’s head since the first time he’d seen it somewhere near the Mediterranean at one sundown many, many moons ago. 

__

“What do you think?” Yusuf prodded when Nicolò remained speechless. 

__

“I,” said Nicolò, suddenly burst into laughter, “I would say it’s very beautiful. But would that be prideful, do you think?” he said. 

__

Yusuf laughed with him, quietly glad that his complexion hid the heat climbing into his cheeks. 

__

Nicolò went quiet for a moment. “I think your drawings should have adorned castles and houses of worship.”

__

“Ah,” Yusuf said. “Unfortunately, my people do not adorn our castles and holy places with the likeness of living things like yours do. Sometimes I mourn it.”

__

“Oh, yes,” Nicolò said. “You prefer geometric shapes and calligraphy for your buildings. I wonder why.”

__

“Creating likenesses of living beings is considered too close to idolatry. It is forbidden,” said Yusuf. They didn’t often talk or compare their religions, but it struck Yusuf that they were now talking about it civilly. And it almost felt free from the weight of their earlier animosity. Maybe, Yusuf thought, maybe there was no such animosity between him and Nicolò anymore. 

__

“Creating the likenesses of living beings is considered a sin?” asked Nicolò. 

__

“Yes,” Yusuf admitted without a shred of guilt.

__

“And yet you do it anyway?”

__

Yusuf shrugged. “I never claimed to be a religious man. I did it because it brings me pleasure, not because I attempt to play god or worship anything but the Almighty…” he trails off. “And some people told me I am good at it,” he grinned. “If Allah Al Khaliq, The Creator, judges me because of that, then so be it.”

__

Nicolò looked alternatively stunned and contemplative. 

__

Yusuf nudged his shoulder. “I am sure you have something your god forbids you to do that you did anyway for some reason or another. We are humans, after all.”

__

For some inexplicable reason, Nicolò turned red. Yusuf was mesmerised. His fingers twitched, longing to touch and feel the heat underneath his skin. _Which part of that made you blush? What sins have you committed, my kind, capable Nicolò?_ He wanted to ask. 

__

Maybe he would ask it someday. 

__

__

***

__

__

“You blushed so beautifully, then, too, when I told you why I draw even though it’s considered a sin of idolatry,” Joe says, watching the same faint blush spread to Nicolò’s neck as he trails kisses down to his chest. 

__

“I wondered which part of our conversation provoked you so,” Joe adds, kissing Nicky’s clavicle. “Was it because you did commit something you knew is a sin?” he asks, leaving another kiss to the hollow of Nicky’s throat. “Or, because you did it while knowing it’s a sin and did not regret it?” – another kiss to the underside of Nicky’s jaw. 

__

Nicky makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “The latter. Both. Sort of. I blame you.”

__

Hovering near Nicky’s ear, Joe chuckles. “How so?”

__

Both of Nicky’s hands come up to cup Joe’s head. He looks somewhat incredulous when he meets Joe’s eyes. “Because you kissed me. When I thought you were my Lord and Saviour.”

__

The crinkles around Joef’s eyes deepen. “Well –”

__

Nicky cuts him off. “You kissed me, Yusuf. You held me when I was awake like I was this precious thing. And you were still holding me when you were asleep when the weather didn’t require it anymore. Tell me, whose fault was that when Nicolò, a _virgin_ , woke up with, with – _thoughts_ , ideas?”

__

“Oh,” Joe says, looking both intrigued and amused, which serves only to annoy Nicky more. “I wish you had told me.”

__

Nicky scoffs. “You found out anyway.” He runs his hands on Joe’s curls. “Eventually.” 

__

__

***

__

__

Nicolò came with a stifled gasp. It hadn’t taken that many strokes for him to spill into his own hand. He felt rather silly after, with his seed drying in his hand, his tunic hiked up above his waist, and the bark of the palm tree prickling against his back. 

__

He took a moment, and then, instead of smoothing his tunic down and washing his hand, he carefully removed it with his clean hand. Then he took a plunge into the freezing water. 

__

Yusuf had always been a tactile person. He spoke with touches as much as words. Nicolò had not minded it, had not given it much thought before. When he had started to think about it, it had been too late. He had grown accustomed to it, had expected it when he slept, when he brought back catch of the day, when he managed to do well in his Arabic lesson. 

__

There had been a shift after they had arrived at the wadi; quiet but bringing with it devastating consequences. Nicolò knew then, what Yusuf’s lips felt against his skin, his heartbeat against his chest, his beard rasping against his ear. These have been haunting him, adding to the mix the already churning confusion inside of him caused by their sleeping arrangement. 

__

During the cold night out in the open, Nicolò had thought only of Yusuf’s warmth, and he had been grateful for it. In the comfort of their tent now, he thought of Yusuf’s hard cock against his ass, how breath against his neck felt similar to his kiss, which made him shiver. He thought of his own morning wood, and if rutting against Yusuf’s thigh, which had begun to slip between his legs during some nights, like Yusuf was an octopus trying to prise open a clam, would bring him relief. 

__

Some nights he had woken up with these thoughts and here he was. It had been one of those nights. The cold swim helped. By the time he’d dried himself and returned inside, his body would have calmed down and his mind somewhat cleared. He would lie down again, and Yusuf would be jostled to half wakefulness just in time for his fajr prayer. And after, he would return to Nicolò’s side. And he would proceed to try to prise him open like a clam again. 

__

Nicolò would have been within his right to elbow Yusuf or just shove him away. Or simply told him when they’re both awake that he wanted space. But he never did. He wasn’t sure he wanted space, either. 

__

His endurance, however, had its limit. 

__

__

One night after fajr, Yusuf returned to his side and draped himself over Nicolò like he was wont to do. Nicolò was willing his breath to match with his to calm himself down when Yusuf’s hand slipped beneath his shirt to splay over his lower belly. Nicolò jerked like he was burned and headbutted Yusuf’s face. 

__

Yusuf moaned in pain. Nicolò turned over, horrified. 

__

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said in Arabic. “Are you hurt, Yusuf?”

__

Yusuf’s face scrunched up with both pain and sleep. “ _Wallah_ , Nicolò,” he complained, his voice muffled by a hand rubbing his face. 

__

Nicolò hoped he hadn’t broken his nose. 

__

“What’s wrong?” asked Yusuf, voice rough. 

__

“N-nothing,” said Nicolò. “You surprised me, is all.”

__

Yusuf was still rubbing his nose. “What did I do?” he asked, both eyes finally open. 

__

“You touched my –,” _belly, groin_ , Nicolò wanted to say. But he didn’t have the word in Arabic, so he waved in the general direction of his nether region. 

__

Yusuf instantly sobered up. “I touched your –” 

__

Nicolò didn’t really catch the Arabic word. He might have heard it hurled as an insult before, but he wasn’t so sure. But judging from how mortified Yusuf looked, he must have thought Nicolò had meant his _actual_ nether region. 

__

“Nicolò, I’m so sor–”

__

“No, no,” said Nicolò, “I don’t think –,” he sighed. 

__

Before Yusuf could launch into a barrage of apologies, Nicolò caught his hand and pressed it to his shirt, over his belly. 

__

“There,” he said. “You touched me there.” _Under the shirt_ , he should have added, but he bit his tongue. 

__

“Your belly,” Yusuf said in Arabic. 

__

“My belly,” Nicolò said in Zeneize. 

__

Yusuf looked confused. “You are... ticklish?

__

Nicolò didn’t know the word either. Once in a while, this happened. They had thought they had made so much progress with the mutual languages between them only to discover certain conversations were full of holes and gaps that needed fillings. It just happened that this one occurred in an ungodly hour with Nicolò actually trying _not_ to tell Yusuf how he actually felt. 

__

“I don’t know that word either,” he shrugged. 

__

Yusuf scrunched his face. _Wrinkles shouldn’t look so charming on anyone_ , Nicolò thought. 

__

Yusuf raised both of his hands and moved towards Nicolò. But he changed his mind mid-way, and hugged himself instead, then mimicked tickling motion and the sound of laughter. 

__

“Ticklish,” said Nicolò in Zeneize. 

__

“Ticklish,” Yusuf repeated in Arabic. 

__

Nicolò tried to mimic the sound. Yusuf shrugged. 

__

“No, I’m not ticklish,” said Nicolò, enunciating carefully. “Just,” he searched the word. “Ambushed,” he settles. 

__

“Ambushed?” Yusuf still looked confused. 

__

_Well, that’s not the precise word then_ , Nicolò paused. Then he put a palm to his heart and mimed a startled expression. “Startled,” he said in Zeneize. 

__

“Ah,” Yusuf said. “Startled,” he said in Arabic. He sighed. 

__

“I’m sorry I headbutted you,” said Nicolò. 

__

“No, it’s fine,” said Yusuf, rubbing his beard. He yawned. “I’m sorry I startled you.”

__

Then they stared at each other rather awkwardly. Nicolò wished the brazier would die and the dawn would stop breaking – he could have used the darkness to hide everything. 

__

__

***

__

__

“Against the palm tree?” Joe sounds too delighted with the information. Nicky smacks him in the chest. 

__

“Hush,” he says. “I’m not proud of it.”

__

“I wished I had caught you. I would have loved to draw you like that. Or offer you _a hand_ –” Joe yelps as Nicky bites his ear. But he is unrepentant, “You should have just moved my hand lower, Nicky. We wouldn’t have spent so much time growing our vocabulary when we could have been doing something else.”

__

“Pervert,” Nicky accuses, rubbing his face onto Joe’s beard. 

__

Joe huffs. “Right back at you, my love.”

__

Nicky shuts him up by putting his tongue in his mouth. 

__

While Joe’s distracted, Nicky reaches over to the sideboard next to chaise, taking out Booker’s latest gift for them, a Polaroid SX-70 instant camera. 

__

“What’s that for?” Joe says, a little miffed that Nicky eventually breaks the kiss for some air. 

__

“You’re not the only one who likes to immortalise memories, Joe,” says Nicky, fiddling with the camera and its cartridge while half-straddling his lap with all the the seriousness of handling a sniper rifle. The cashmere throw is slipping off his shoulder. 

__

Joe is not particularly fond of cameras. But then he thinks, he won’t mind using it to snap moments like this. 

__

__

***

__

__

Nicolò had always been curious about what Yusuf drew on his sketchbook. He wasn’t sure that knowing what Yusuf had drawn, that Yusuf had drawn _him_ of all things, satisfied his curiosity or made it worse. 

__

Who was he trying to kid? He was currently waist-deep in the water, standing there with his makeshift spear a little too long than necessary he’s sure he would get a sunburn because now he knew that Yusuf, who was sitting on a boulder at the corner of his vision, was possibly sketching him into his landscape. 

__

He did get sunburnt. It didn’t last long. And he would do it again. He would hold still and take his time whenever he realised that Yusuf had his eyes on him. When he was washing their clothes, chopping the herbs, or tending to the fire. He was guilty of so many things. He briefly wondered if he was enabling Yusuf in his sins of idolatry. If he was playing the part of a temptress. His face would get hot when he thought of it. 

__

But it wasn’t the kind of a shame that he had been familiar with, not the same pang of guilt he felt when his gaze had lingered a little too long at fellow novices in the church. This time he was less inclined to beat himself over it. This time, he took comfort in the fact that Yusuf would have thought it simply as something humans do. If he would be judged for it, then so be it. After all, didn’t God make him go down this path and bind his fate to Yusuf’s? 

__

Like it’s destiny. 

__

__

*** 

__

__

If previously Yusuf had felt like a cat stealing milk from a maid when he sketched Nicolò’s likeness without the man knowing, now he felt like the maid had begun leaving him a cup of milk in front of the door as a treat. Nicolò’s striking features and Yusuf’s feeling aside, Nicolò had been a good subject because he was good at staying still. 

__

But now Yusuf found him taking pauses during whatever he was doing if he noticed that Yusuf was watching. And sometimes, when Yusuf lifted his eyes from his drawing, he would meet Nicolò’s eyes, watching him in return. Before the wadi, Yusuf would have immediately looked elsewhere. Now, he held Nicolò’s gaze. Nicolò always dropped the contact first. 

__

He didn’t waste the gift, the artist’s pride didn’t allow him to. His likenesses of Nicolò grew more detailed, more obsessive, more daring. Nicolò had taken over the role of the protagonist in his sketches from the landscape. 

__

He’d drawn Nicolò without his shirt, his previously emaciated frame filling out nicely as food was easy to come by in the wadi; his muscles now defined thanks to the chores and work offered by its residents and travellers. Yusuf now knew – as well as he had known the contour of Nicolò’s face – the ratio of his shoulder to his waist, his limbs to his torso, and the curves of his ass, thigh and calves. 

__

Some days, he saw Nicolò’s cock, when he was awake for fajr prayer just in time to see Nicolò emerging from the water after his ungodly-hour swim. Uncut, soft in its nest of brown hair, size in proportion to his height. 

__

Nudity had been par for the course in their journey. Yusuf had thought nothing of it before. He didn’t know exactly, when that had changed. He wondered if it was the same for Nicolò. Yusuf had never noticed before, but he did now, that Nicolò’s eyes lingered on his bare skin a tad longer. The way the air between them was charged with a kind of expectation. 

__

Yusuf supposed, in a way, he had committed idolatry when it came to Nicolò. It struck him one day when Nicolò came running to their camp. He was tallying his latest barter, counting their coins, when Nicolò grabbed his wrist and pulled him up. 

__

“Quick, Yusuf, you must come with me!” he said, breathless, hair falling over his bright eyes. “Hurry.”

__

Yusuf followed, a little alarmed. But Nicolò looked almost giddy with a childlike excitement – something that he had never seen from the man before. It was something he would gladly chase. They ran for a bit, across the wadi, to where the greens gave way to barren red sand.

__

He almost smacked Nicolò’s back when the man stopped suddenly, looking up to the sky and changing course. All the while he didn’t let go of Yusuf's hand, his palm burned on his. 

__

“What are we chasing?” Yusuf yelled. 

__

“You’ll see!” Nicolò said. 

__

Yusuf noticed the cloud first. It was dark with water and looked both at home and completely out of place in the landscape. Then he noticed the water droplets. 

__

_Rain. Desert rain._ He thought. 

__

Nicolò was pulling him straight into the rain. He was laughing. Yusuf almost didn’t let go when he dropped his hand to spread his arms like he was offering himself to the heavens. 

__

“Look,” he said to Yusuf, pointing out at the distance. 

__

Yusuf squinted, taking a moment to figure out what he was supposed to see. But then he saw it. 

__

Life, unfolding before them. Greenery sprouted off the barren ground in front of his eyes like it has been waiting, waiting for a sign. Or, Yusuf supposed, maybe they were just asleep before, these plants, conserving their energy as seeds, as roots, and dull bulbs indistinguishable from the rocks and pebbles around them. Living things camouflaging as dead things. And now the rain was calling them to wakefulness. 

__

The barren land changed into a garden. Lush, and sultry with bright-coloured succulent flowers that bloomed into existence faster than Yusuf could wake up in the morning. And among these was Nicolò, looking happier than Yusuf had ever seen. 

__

“You see?” he said to him, a smile splitting his face, bringing about some new lines on his face. His hair was a mess and his shirt clinging onto his torso. 

__

Yusuf swallowed. “I see,” he said, trying to smile but somewhat finding it difficult. 

__

It must have shown in his face. 

__

“What’s wrong?” Nicolò asked. 

__

“Nothing,” Yusuf managed, settling for a smaller smile that felt more natural for that moment. “I wished I had my book and charcoal with me.”

__

“Ah,” Nicolò said, touching his shoulder. “I thought of it but the water… Anyway, if you forget about how this looks –,” he gestured at the garden that didn’t exist five minutes before, but he might as well have included himself in the landscape. “–I will remind you.”

__

__

*******

__

__

“And I thought to myself: how could I forget?” says Joe. 

__

A flash coming from Nicky’s direction answers him. 

__

Joe looks at him to find him wielding the SX-70, grinning. “You make the same face you did back then, almost like you are in pain,” Nicky says, holding the still-dark white-framed photo in his hand. “I wondered if I had done something wrong.”

__

“No, my love,” Joe says, giving Nicky a kiss on the shoulder. “Yusuf was only having a moment. He had just witnessed the most beautiful thing, and it was devastating in the best way possible.”

__

“Oh?” says Nicky, flapping the picture so the colour would show up faster. 

__

Joe gives him that pained smile again. “Yusuf knew then, he had fallen in love.”

__

“Ah.” Nicky smiles He looks like he was about to say something else, but settling with taking another picture of Joe. 

__

Joe huffs. “Come on, tell me,” he says. 

__

“What?” he says innocently, catching another square regurgitated by the camera. 

__

“When was it for Nicolò?”

__

Joe never finds it not adorable when Nicky turns red. He takes the camera from Nicky’s hand as he takes his time answering. 

__

“It was long before that, for Nicolò,” he says after a long moment. 

__

“Ah,” says Joe, and takes a picture. “When?”

__

Nicky hums as he smiles at the image that appears on his earlier polaroid. “I think, the first time I died of exposure. When you were so mad at me. You wept for me and I…” he trails of. “I think that was when.”

__

They let the silence fill out the space. 

__

Something hot and restless flutters low in Joe’s belly. He puts the SX-70 on the table and slips the drawing board and paper under the chaise. Then he turns fully to face Nicky. 

__

“Come here,” he says. 

__

__

***

__

__

Yusuf understood then, why Nicolò’s people adorn their houses of worship with naked figures. _Isn’t that the most glorious thing?_ He thought to himself as he saw his sketch of Nicolò, sans clothes, waist-deep in the water. Yusuf was well and truly a sinner, no doubt of it. 

__

He wondered what would Nicolo’s reaction be if he showed him that. _Who would be more mortified?_ He wondered. _Nicolò, probaby Nicolò_ , he answered the question himself.

__

But then again Yusuf kept finding Nicolò partially and or fully undressed in and around their camp, and he almost ran out of paper on his book. The next time he had enough coins, he needed to buy a notebook and a sketchbook – separating his needs and wants, business and pleasure and all of that. Probably buy more clothes for them both, too, as, alas, as much as Yusuf had dreamt it, they cannot live like latter day Adam and Hawa in paradise. 

__

Much like the Nicolò in his drawing, the Nicolò he currently was seeing in front of his eyes was naked. He’s not posing though, or seemed to be aware that Yusuf was watching. He perched inelegantly near the water, a dagger on hand. He didn’t look like he’s looking to catch a fish with it. He lifted he dagger to his face and –

__

“What are you doing?” Yusuf shouted from where he was seated. 

__

Nicolò startled and nicked his jaw. Yusuf heard him yelped. “Shaving!” 

__

_What a savage_ , Yusuf thought. “Stop,” he yelled. “Just wait!” 

__

__

Nicolò watched as Yusuf went into their tent and emerged carrying something, a container. He thought Yusuf would lob it at him, but instead, he marched over to him looking so determined Nicolò got a little anxious. 

__

He squatted next to him, uncaring of his nudity.

__

“Use this,” he said, opening the lid of the wooden container. There was a clear liquid inside. 

__

“What is this?” Nicolò asked. It had no smell. 

__

Yusuf said a word in Arabic that Nicolò didn’t catch. “I just bartered it this morning,” Yusuf explained. 

__

Nicolò peered into the container, eyes squinting. Yusuf made a frustrated noise and started taking off his clothes. 

__

“I’ll help you,” he said before Nicolò could ask, plunging into the water. “You’re hopeless at grooming.”

__

That’s how Nicolò ended up sitting on a rock, naked, with Yusuf between his legs, partially submerged and also naked. If both of them noticed how painfully naked they were, none mentioned it. 

__

It wasn’t a liquid after all, it’s thicker and viscous. It felt cold when Yusuf slathered it on his face. 

__

“You should have this,” he said. “They use this here to treat sunburn and shave among other things. It’s made of those spiky succulents growing near the hill.”

__

Nicolò hummed in response. He should mention that his sunburn would only last a few minutes, but he didn’t dare to move. Yusuf was so close. The handful of times they’d been this close, one or both of them had been either sleeping or dying. 

__

Closing his eyes would probably help with the hammering heart beat, but Nicolò was too transfixed by Yusuf’s face, the freckles smattering his nose, the dark eyes that seem to always twinkle like the night sky, and the shapely mouth nested in that lush beard. He could almost feel the scratchy sensation at the back of his neck and heat was creeping back into his face. He cursed his pale complexion. 

__

Yusuf noticed that too, and quietly enjoyed it. “Stay still,” he said, picking up Nicolò’s dagger. 

__

The blade glides smoothly over Nicolò’s slicked beard. It took Nicolò considerably longer time to grow it, unlike Yusuf, whose beard sprouted off like weeds that he'd needed to trim it off on the regular. Nicolò didn’t hate having a beard, it was useful against the cold. But he preferred his face clean-shaven. 

__

Nicolò’s hands twitched on his sides, itching to feel Yusuf’s beard with his palms. 

__

“You have a lovely mole,” Yusuf said, apropos of nothing. Nicolò didn’t catch his last word. He looked at Yusuf questioningly. 

__

Yusuf tapped on his mole gently, as he washed the blade and applied more of that cooling substance. “Mole,” he repeated in Arabic. 

__

“Mole,” said Nicolò in Zeneize. Then he tried to imitate the Arabic word. 

__

Yusuf smiled at his effort. His dimples were showing. They had been mostly hidden by his beard, it felt like a discovery every time Nicolò saw them. 

__

__

Nicolò didn’t know what possessed him when he reached out to touch that spot and said, “Dimple.” in Zeneize. 

__

“Dimple,” repeated Yusuf and of course he did perfect the first time. He said the word back in Arabic. Nicolò tried to repeat it. By the way Yusuf smiled, it looked like he did a passable job. 

__

Then it’s all over too quickly. Yusuf scooped some water and rinsed Nicolò’s face, then used his own shirt to dab it. “All done,” he said. 

__

Then their eyes locked and something else, something that in hindsight felt inevitable, shifted. 

__

__

“Smooth,” Yusuf said, running his knuckles over Nicolò’s freshly shaved skin. Nicolò squinted. That word was not in his vocabulary yet.

__

Yusuf knew the word in both Sabir and Zeneize, he could have easily translated it. But instead, he took Nicolò’s hand and put the palm on his jaw and rubbed it over his beard. “Coarse,” he said in Arabic. “Smooth,” he repeated with another caress to Nicolò’s jaw.

__

“Coarse,” Nicolò repeated first, and it was perfect. He said it again in Zeneize and got the meaning right. He stumbled on the pronunciation of the word for 'smooth'. Yusuf guided him through it. Nicolò repeated it in his tongue, getting the meaning right again. Yusuf felt a little drunk. 

__

“Adam’s apple,” he said next, touching his own. Nicolò repeated the word carefully. Then he said it in Zeneize, touching his. 

__

Nicolò’s breath stuttered in his throat as Yusuf leaned and pressed a kiss to his Adam's apple. Brief and chaste, lingering just a touch too long to make his intention, his invitation, clear. 

__

Nicolò didn’t kick him, or shove him, or run away. He sat so very still, he might as well be a statue if it wasn't for the blush creeping down his neck, staining his chest. Yusuf felt reckless. He dipped to give him another kiss, this time on his clavicle. 

__

“Collarbone,” he said, looking at Nicolò’s eyes. _Subhanallah_ , they are dark. 

__

He chewed on his bottom lip before repeating the word back in his lilting Arabic. Then in Zeneize. To Yusuf’s surprise, he did so while touching Yusuf’s collarbone. He repeated the word, flawlessly. 

__

When Yusuf told him the Arabic word for nipple next, he didn’t just give him a kiss there, he pinched one and swirled his tongue on another. 

__

Nicolò’s hand shot up to grasp his hair and tugged it. Still, he stayed put. Still, he repeated the word faithfully and told Yusuf of its counterpart in his language. Yusuf wondered how far Nicolò would allow him to continue. 

__

He stayed on Nicolò’s chest, laving attention to both nipples, delighted to find that Nicolò was sensitive there, judging by how he squirmed around him. He looked delectably debauched, Yusuf had half a mind to drag him into the water like a nymph. Soon _, soon_ , he told himself. 

__

Then Yusuf took Nicolò’s hand, and put his index and middle finger inside his mouth. 

__

Nicolò gasped, his feet gave a little kick in the water. 

__

“Tongue,” Yusuf said, licking around the digits. He gently touched Nicolò’s lips with his own index and middle fingers, an offering. 

__

Nicolò exhaled slowly. “Tongue,” he repeated the Arabic word. “Tongue,” he said again in Zeneize, and took Yusuf’s fingers inside his mouth, giving them attention just as good as he had been receiving. 

__

Yusuf moaned around his fingers at the sensation, doubling down the effort by sucking harder on Nicolò’s fingers. 

__

When Nicolò was audibly panting, and his cock had grown hard and proud against his stomach, Yusuf himself was also hard and aching, though he didn’t consider it a priority now. Yusuf released Nicolò’s fingers with a pop. Nicolò did the same with his; his lips were red and wet, a string of saliva stretched between them and his fingers like dewy spiderweb.

__

It occurred to Yusuf that he hasn’t kissed Nicolò yet on the mouth. _Is that rude?_ He briefly wondered. But he saw Nicolò’s jutting cock in front of him and decided that he would continue south. They were in a lesson. He would see Nicolò through it. 

__

So he trailed kisses downwards, putting both of his hands on Nicolò’s torso, fingers fitting into the grooves between his ribs. Nicolò squirmed. 

__

“Not ticklish?” asked Yusuf, remembering their conversation the night Nicolò had headbutted him. 

__

“A little ticklish,” said Nicolò, sounding a little strangled. 

__

Yusuf chuckled and proceeded to tongue Nicolò’s belly button. Alternating between it and nibbling on the soft skin of Nicolò’s belly. Nicolò was struggling to stay still, so Yusuf held him by the hips. Nicolò jerked at the pressure, cock bobbing up to brush the side of Yusuf’s face. Yusuf ignored it. There would be time for that later. 

__

“Belly button,” he said in Arabic. 

__

“What,” said, Nicolò, sounding and looking deliciously drunk. 

__

“Belly button,” Yusuf repeated. “Come on, Nicolò, we’re learning,” he teased. 

__

Nicolò looked like could murder him. But then he repeated the word, quite decently, and threw its Zeneize counterpart at Yusuf, who happened to have it in his vocabulary already. 

__

Yusuf closed his eyes and stored Nicolò's soft moan in his memory as he wrapped both of his hands on his cock. He had a lovely, uncut cock, a good size with a slight curve that Yusuf happily traced with his tongue. 

__

Nicolò ruined his plan then, by surging up and pushing himself into the water. The next thing Yusuf knew he was backed up and pinned against one of the giant boulders whose smooth surface slanted towards the water, Nicolò’s mouth open and hungry on his. 

__

It felt both new and familiar, the press of Nicolò’s body on his. His skin and mouth were deliciously hot in the cold water. Yusuf put one hand on his neck, the other cradling the back of his head. He licked into Nicolò’s mouth, drinking his passion and frustration, coaxing him into a rhythm, folding his body into his embrace. 

__

It’s a little frightening how well they fit together. How Yusuf thought that, like this, he could die happy like this. They did little more than kissing and rubbing against each other. 

__

“Nicolò, Nicolò,” Yusuf said when Nicolò released his mouth to latch onto his neck. “We just got to the good part,” he teased, slipping his hands between their bodies to wrap his hand around Nicolò’s cock. 

__

Nicolò gasped and bit his neck. Yusuf groaned and used the momentum to flip their positions, pinning Nicolò against the smooth surface. 

__

“Cock,” he whispered to Nicolò’s ear, “Uncut cock.”

__

“I don’t know the last word,” Nicolò said. 

__

Yusuf took Nicolo's hand and guided it to wrap around his erection. They’re about the same size, but Yusuf had more girth. He hissed as Nicolò tightened his fist around him. 

__

“I’m cut,” he said. “Yours is uncut. Uncut cock.”

__

Nicolò laughed. “Uncut cock,” he repeated. And again in Zeneize, and Yusuf thought it sounded like such an exquisite filth.

__

“Cut cock?” Nicolò said as he pumped Yusuf’s. 

__

Yusuf laughed. “That would be a regular cock where I came from, Nicolò. But yes, cut cock, I suppose,” he said with great effort. 

__

“Thick cock,” Nicolò said as he pumped with more intent. 

__

Yusuf groaned. “Who taught you that, huh?”

__

They didn’t talk anymore after that, their mouths busy devouring each other, tasting, licking, teasing. The water was fun for a bit, but it wasn’t an ideal place to bring them to completion so Yusuf coaxed Nicolò to climb the rock he had perched on earlier, and joined him. They lay side by side.

__

Nicolò gasped when Yusuf wrapped a hand around both of their cocks. His hand was warm and slippery. “Give me your hand,” he said.

__

He did and Yusuf poured a generous amount of the viscous liquid onto his palm. He then guided him to wrap around them too. 

__

Nicolò bucked at the slippery sensation when Yusuf tightened their joint grip. 

__

“Shhh,” he soothed him and he began pumping. 

__

“You planned this,” Nicolò accused him. 

__

Yusuf’s laugh sounded a little like a sob. “No, I was giving you a lesson Nicolò,” he said, pressing his forehead to Nicolò’s. “Hey, you kissed me on the mouth first.”

__

Nicolò could debate him about that, but he groaned instead. “This slippery thing…!”

__

“It’s for your sunburn, among other things,” Yusuf managed a wink. 

__

Nicolò captured his lips, devouring them while tightening his grip and accelerating the rhythm. 

__

Yusuf closed his eyes and let him, hitching one leg over Nicolò’s hip, crushing their still wet bodies together. He was close. Nicolò was too, judging from his erratic breathing. 

__

“Look at me,” Nicolò said when he broke the kiss. “Yusuf, look at me.”

__

Yusuf did. 

__

And they tumbled over the edge to their climax, one after another, spilling messily into each other’s hand, feeling each other tremble through the aftershocks, breathing each other’s moan. 

__

As they lay there in the sun, kissing and touching aimlessly, water drying on their skin, consciousness slipping away, Nicolò thought that he might not need his nightly swim again. 

__

__

***

__

__

As wonderful as it is having a naked Nicky on his lap on his chaise, Joe prefers their bed, where he can open him up properly. 

__

He, eventually, with great difficulties and many interruptions from kisses and camera clicks later, manages to manoeuvre them back to the bed. 

__

Though Nicky insists on taking the SX-70 with them. 

__

"You’re going to run out ammunition soon. That thing can only take ten pictures at a time,” Joe points out as Nicky takes off his pants, literally single handedly. 

__

“Don’t worry,” says Nicky. Booker sent a few cartridges.” He shows one. “Always carry an extra.”

__

Joe laughs as Nicky towers over him, his knees on either side of Joe’s hips. He snaps another picture. 

__

“Are you going to snap naked pictures of me all day?” he asks, crossing his arms behind his head. 

__

“Maybe,” says Nicky. “I’m starting to see the appeal of visual art. I see why you love it so much.”

__

Joe groans. “This is payback for all the time I asked you to pose naked for me, isn't it?”

__

Nicky snorts. “Get the lube,” he says. “Make yourself useful. I want to ride you.”

__

Joe doesn’t need to be told twice. He twists to reach for the lube on the nightstand and slides back under Nicky’s legs to prepare him in one fluid motion that would have made Andy proud. 

__

Nicky sighs as Joe’s lube-coated fingers skims over his entrance. 

__

“Are you sore?” Joe asks. “You’re still tender and soft here.”

__

“Mmm, a little,” Nicky says, his breath hitching as Joe sinks his digit in. “But I want more.”

__

“Thank heavens for water-based lube,” says Joe. 

__

Nicky chuckles. “I’d settle for all-natural aloe, Yusuf.”

__

Joe sits up to peck his lips, one hand caressing the plane of Nicky’s torso while the other is three fingers deep in him. Nicky lets out a lascivious sigh. He sways a little on his knees so he puts one hand on Joe’s shoulder, taking Joe’ picture with the other. 

__

“Look at you, so good like this. I should be the one taking pictures of you instead,” Joe says as he adds more lube. 

__

“Uh-uh,” says Nicky, snapping another picture. “Can’t get all that lube on the camera.” Another polaroid falls to bed. The SX-70 makes a noise indicating its empty film cartridge. Nicky reaches over blindly for the new one, finds it, tears the packaging open with his mouth, and replaces it with speed and focus like he didn't have Joe’s fingers scissoring him open. 

__

“Kiss me,” Joe demands. 

__

Nicky ducks to give him one, a filthy deep one. Joe hears a click and a flash, sees Nicky’s extended hand snapping a picture of them. 

__

“Will that even work?” he asks, amused. 

__

Nicky shrugs. “We’ll see,” he says, as he lets the polaroid fall. 

__

“Maybe one day they’ll invent a camera that you can hold and use to take your own pictures like a mirror. And we can spend all day being narcissists.”

__

Nicky smiles and ducks to rain kisses on Joe’s face, “Silly man,” he says. “I love you. Will you fuck me now?”

__

Joe takes his fingers out. “Nicolò, did you say that to shut me up?” he asks. He guides Nicky to his cock, watching his face scrunch up in pleasure as he takes him inch by slow inch. 

__

Joe puts a hand between Nicky’s shoulder blades and wraps the other around his cock, thumbing its weeping slit. Nicky groans and allows the camera to fall to the bed, putting his hands on Joe’s shoulders for leverage. 

__

They don’t hear the _click click click_ of the camera as it hits the mattress just at the right button and regurgitate more polaroids, too busy worshipping each other, pouring their senses into this fevered dance they have perfected for the better part of a millennia. 

__

__

***

__

__

“These are actually pretty good,” Joe says, inspecting a picture showing a blurred image of Nicky's face in profile, mouth open, pressed into the side of his head. “In an obscene, indecent way.” 

__

Nicky is lying half on top of him, inspecting another picture. “You can’t really tell what this is.” He shows Joe one. 

__

“Oh, I know what that is,” he grins, and smacks Nicky’s ass. “I’d know that curve anywhere.”

__

Nicky snorts. “We probably have to burn these.”

__

“I think I’ll keep them,” Joe says. “Store them in the vault with the paintings and drawings, all the snapshots of our lives there.”

__

“Your den of idolatry,” says Nicky.

__

“My altar of worship,” Joe corrects. 

__

Nicky chuckles. “And mine too, my love,” he says. 

__

  
  


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***

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**Author's Note:**

> A friend of mine pointed out that the title should have been: _Love and Lust in Paradise_ , which I think is apt. So, I hereby declare that the full title of this fic is: _Idolatry (or Love and Lust in Paradise)_. 
> 
> Is Nicky technically naked during the entire duration of this fic? Yes. Is this fic essentially a long-ass morning after/foreplay for more smut? Also yes. Where is that desert do you think? I have no idea - do you have any ideas?
> 
> Are those Polaroids hot? 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 millions of Scovilles. Will the others discovered them? Nile will, accidentally, “Oh, what are these? Polaroids, so hipster, wait, are these - OH MY GOD MY EYES.” - yep, Nile discovers her immortal dads’ proto porno shots from the ‘80s.
> 
> Thanks for sticking to the end with me. This is the longest single chapter story I have ever penned. 
> 
> You guys Discord peeps know how I have screamed these past few weeks trying to birth this baby. Thanks to all the supporters and sprint buddies, you know who you are! 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr and Discord under the same name ✨
> 
> If this little fic made you feel something, I'd be super stoked if you yell it in a comment, it'll make my day ✨♥️✨♥️✨♥️


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